


through the years

by goldtracing



Series: the arcane under the obvious [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Artifacts, British Museum, Gen, Historical Characters - Freeform, Plundering, Post-War, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Relationships, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtracing/pseuds/goldtracing
Summary: One thing that never changes is that interpersonal relationships are not easy for them.All of these short-stories can also by found on my Tumblr account.
Relationships: America & Belgium (Hetalia), America & England (Hetalia), America & Russia (Hetalia), Egypt & England (Hetalia), Egypt & Turkey (Hetalia), France & Russia (Hetalia)
Series: the arcane under the obvious [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061180
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. Cupitidy

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily based and inspired by the Youtube video: James Acaster, On the Absurdity of the British Empire. If you want more than this fic and the stand-up comedy then I highly recommend checking out relaible articles on the topic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2010s - Egypt is hopeful despite everything that Turkey points out and England's greed shines through

Guputa would never really like London. Sure, the weather was unusually sunny that fine morning and it gave him hope that he’d have a better chance today with the ex-Empire.

But there already was the infuriating bustle on the city streets, cars honking, children running and adults staring at their smartphones as they rushed off to work. No matter how many times Egypt visited the metropole, it was still alien to him with its gothic and romantic architecture, a few glass skyscrapers in the distance, and the infuriating vibe to it that screamed British.

It was the sort of foreign that crawled under his skin and made him feel tainted. No matter how much he tried, he could never fully shake of the echoes of colonialism. The undertaking he had in mind today also served to amplify the notion.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”, Sadiq inquired for the hundredth time since they had gotten on that flight from Cairo. The older nation had that infuriating air around him of resignation, like Egypt was being an idealistic brat that was going miserably fail and he was just along for the ride to be a wisecrack. “That bastard is far too prideful for his own good. He’s not going to listen to. All your preaching will go in one ear and out the other and when you remain stubborn, he’ll flip the bird and be all like…”

Turkey straightened himself up in the driver’s seat and said in a very bad imitation of the posh London accent Kirkland favoured at the moment: “’Sod off, ya little wretch! Go back to the shithole you crawled out off”’.

Even though it was amusing, Guputa didn’t so much as chuckle. For all the gentlemanly deportment Kirkland claimed to have, he was very talented in the high arts of swearing and insulting.

His companion glanced at him from the corner of his eyes to gouge his reaction as he jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left to the parking lot of the British Museum. Shaking his head, the younger of the two sighed.

“The world has changed. He’s going to have to relent someday, even just as a sign of the generosity he doesn’t possess”, he monotony replied.

Turkey raised an eyebrow at that and deftly swerved into a parking place.

“Sheesh, you’re sure hopeful. Just don’t come crying to me when he doesn’t do want you want.”

At that the personification slightly inclined his head and muttered: “That won’t be needed.”

“Wait for me in the car, I’ve got this”, Egypt said confidently. At that Turkey shock his head and then proceeded to light himself a cigarette.

Guputa quickly passed through the hassle of getting entry and begrudgingly handed over some money for a ticket – he innately hoped it was the last time he’d have to do something like this.

Thankfully, the museum was rather empty, it being early morning and a workday on top of that, just a few elderly people aimlessly wandering around the displays. How fitting that England also fell into that category.

The culprit was alone in the extensive room of Egyptology, just where the African nation wanted him to be. Arthur Kirkland was as slippery as an eel, skilfully avoiding all attempts of his former colony to pin him down. Now the latter had him finally cornered and the reckoning was neigh.

Dress shoes clicked against polished marble floors and Egypt squared his shoulders. Britain wasn’t even half as mighty as he used to be, and in his tweed jacket and old trousers didn’t look the part of a greedy conqueror one bit. Yet, he wasn’t exactly toothless.

Arthur was marvelling at one of the ornate sarcophagi of one of the numerous late queens of Ancient Egypt, an expression of sickening nostalgia on his face.

Guputa recalled a hot October’s day when the British Empire had hauled a dozen of them down to the docks of Alexandria to ship them off to the heart land.

The colonist had had a triumphant smile on his pale face that suited the power that he had radiated at the time – the 19th century – well.

“It is all your safe-keeping my young lad. You’ve proved time and time again that you’re more inclined to destroy such treasures than anything else. So, let’s leave them in my capable and trustworthy hands, shall we?”, he had smugly inquired.

Naturally, that last part had been a rhetorical question since Egypt never had had any say in that matter. He had only been allowed to enjoy the magnanimous presence of his master whenever the mood struck the latter and watch the open thievery of his heritage.

However, England wasn’t that god made flesh anymore, and divine wrath wouldn’t descend upon Guputa upon disobeying the jaded man.

“To this day it is still magnificent, isn’t it? I still remember how they gave me that letter to invite me to the excavation site when I was coming back from India in 1876. It was a very pleasant surprise”, Kirkland mused.

“Hello England”, the visitor solemnly greeted and at the mention of his true nature Kirkland didn’t flinched. Just shut his eyes and muttered profanities. It was clear why – it meant drama, wiping evidence from the surveillance cameras so that the humans couldn’t trace who they were, it meant hassle with the same government department for causing the mess, it meant a serious conversation.

Only then did Kirkland regard him, green-grey eyes keen and cutting as they always had been.

“Hello Egypt”, he courteously returned, a polite smile only just veiling impatience. He looked the Oriental up and down. “What are you doing here, dressed like the dinner of a dog.”

Subconsciously, Guputa curled his hands to fists. The English and their weird, nonsense sayings. When England had landed upon his shores after driving Napoleon about and had begun issuing his ludicrous demands, he had though about tearing _him_ apart and _feeding him to the dogs_.

“We need to talk”, Egypt said plainly, foregoing any and all pleasantries.

“We are, in case you haven’t noticed”, Arthur remarked dryly, shedding the veneer of a gentleman like a snake sheds its skin.

Egypt crinkled his brow as the beginnings of frustration dawned upon him – interacting with England tended to put stain on his forbearance.

“Don’t make things difficult today, Kirkland”, Egypt chided and then made a wide sweeping gesture to the vast hall. “I’m here to take my stuff back home. It has been a long time since I gained my independence, you still have to apologize for your grievances. I’ll take you giving me my property back as reparations and a sign of good-will.”

England looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I don’t think so. I’m still looking at it”, he retorted, and Egypt barely resisted the need to bury his face in his hands. He earnestly considered fetching Turkey to knock some common sense in the former world power.

“And besides, I still want to show these glorious artifacts to a lot of other people. So not right now, you selfish rascal”, he continued.

He blinked owlishly at Kirkland and slowly pursed his lips, as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

The wretched nation had a look of mock-sympathy on his face, one that was all to familiar from his days of hegemony. And people earnestly thought that Arthur Kirkland couldn’t act to save his life. Wrong, America had to have gotten the talent as a con man from somebody.

“Do need to sulk, lad. No hard feelings, it is just for the best, after all. Why don’t you have a closer look at it”, he carried on and stepped to the side and made a welcoming gesture.

“Come on, come on, I don’t bite”, England said in answer to Guputa’s crossed arms and sceptical stare. The charming grin only widened when he complied.

Lack-lusterly he shifted to stand in front of the glass case and examined the colourful hieroglyphs that decorated the priceless pieces and the meticulously painted face on which time had left their marks.

“Seems familiar?”, Kirkland wryly asked and sniggered self-satisfied. Egypt just opened his mouth to comment on how England was being so insufferably stupid when the latter thundered: “Don’t press your greasy face against the glass! Back off!”, which caused Guputa to hastily jump back.

He gave Britain a smouldering glare to which Arthur just arrogantly lifted his chin and smirked – to him this was all to amusing.

Clenching his hands to fists, Egypt closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting to ten in his head. This was going to be far more difficult than he thought. 


	2. Vendetta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1812 - Russia has all intensions of making France pay for his arrogance

There is certain delight in taking in France’ horror at his sudden appearance. The other nation looks so rundown, so lost.

There is a sneer on those feminine features that looked hopeless before he spotted his enemy. Ivan would find the set-up amusing if there wasn’t such severe reasons. He still did - black humour was deeply ingrained in his personality at this point.

“Not so grand anymore Francis. You seem a bit upset, what is the matter?“, he cooed. It was a understatement - his unwilling guest had a attitude that was getting worse by the second and the man would gut him if his frost-bitten fingers would allow him. He hadn’t been able to unscrew the cap of his hip-flask before Ivan had surprised him.

Now Bragwinski was calmly leaning against a tree trunk, watching how the falling snow was gathering on his opponents shoulders and the ridiculous hat he insisted on wearing. The once pristine uniform was burned and ripped and in a pitiful attempt to stay warm, he had wrapped rags around his hands and neck.

“Curse you, go to hell you bastard“, he hissed, barely able to hid the clattering of his teeth. He was weak, the cold was taking its toll and the injury on his leg was poorly treated and throbbing painfully.

Ivan cocked his head to the side and chided Francis: “Tch, and you promote manners. Where is the eloquence you love to display? Besides, don’t you appreciate my hospitality, my friend?“

There was deep sarcasm in his last words, because he just loved playing games with his kind. He even put on a hurt expression to ice the cake.

“Do not toy around with me…“

“Then what have you been doing this past decade, if not toying around with all of us?“, Ivan interrupted.

Francis gripped his musket tighter with shaking hands, trying to push his chest forward in an attempt to be more imposing, which failed miserably. “Your so-called hospitality is complete lunacy. How can you burn down your own capital?“

To that he smiled wickedly: “Do you really think that I would allow you to win.

How can you expect that your invasion would have no repercussions? Just because you’ve tasted true defeat doesn’t mean you have to throw a tantrum. This is the price for your arrogance.

I wonder if your emperor will still be biting off more than he can chew when he gets back to Paris, if he even manages to.“

Sky blue eyes narrowed at him.

“Through him a new age has dawned where I will bring enlightment to the rest of the world. One of these days I’ll have you on your knees before me and I’ll reign supreme“, he defended himself, even though he himself had begun to doubt how valid his statements were.

Ivan stuck a gloved hand in his coat pocket and began rummaging for his pistole and evenly countered: “That day isn’t today and probably will never come. As of now you are in retreat. This is the beginning of the end of the era Napoleon Francis. It didn’t even last long.

Don’t worry however, I’ll show you your place once I’ve crushed you.“

The younger man turned his head and spat at the forest floor before hissing: “You should be grateful, for how much I contributed to your culture. Do I have to remind you that French is the language of your court?“

Russia bristled slightly but nonetheless continued plowing on: “Therefore the tsar, in all his justness, as decided to return to some of the old values.“

“You speak of the fairness of your ruler while your peasant stock doesn’t even own themselves.“

That stung. It was true that the Russian way of life was harsher on the most and he could feel the discontent of his people deep in his bones. But bad times brought people together, the common goal to chase away the enemy - like at present when he was hunting down Frenchmen.

“Says the man that had his consul crown himself emperor in front of his religious leader. You are one to talk, especially since the ideals of the Revolution aren’t so prevalent any more“, Ivan argued.

When the countered died upon quivering lips and a mind dulled by the circumstances couldn’t formulate a response, Ivan stalked forward.

“I’ll contend with you later. As of now, good night“

With those words he drew his pistole and cocked the hammer. The shot echoed between the trees.

There is certain delight in taking in France’ horror at his sudden appearance. The other nation looks so rundown, so lost.

There is a sneer on those feminine features that looked hopeless before he spotted his enemy. Ivan would find the set-up amusing if there wasn’t such severe reasons. He still did - black humour was deeply ingrained in his personality at this point.

“Not so grand anymore Francis. You seem a bit upset, what is the matter?“, he cooed. It was a understatement - his unwilling guest had a attitude that was getting worse by the second and the man would gut him if his frost-bitten fingers would allow him. He hadn’t been able to unscrew the cap of his hip-flask before Ivan had surprised him.

Now Bragwinski was calmly leaning against a tree trunk, watching how the falling snow was gathering on his opponents shoulders and the ridiculous hat he insisted on wearing. The once pristine uniform was burned and ripped and in a pitiful attempt to stay warm, he had wrapped rags around his hands and neck.

“Curse you, go to hell you bastard“, he hissed, barely able to hid the clattering of his teeth. He was weak, the cold was taking its toll and the injury on his leg was poorly treated and throbbing painfully.

Ivan cocked his head to the side and chided Francis: “Tch, and you promote manners. Where is the eloquence you love to display? Besides, don’t you appreciate my hospitality, my friend?“

There was deep sarcasm in his last words, because he just loved playing games with his kind. He even put on a hurt expression to ice the cake.

“Do not toy around with me…“

“Then what have you been doing this past decade, if not toying around with all of us?“, Ivan interrupted.

Francis gripped his musket tighter with shaking hands, trying to push his chest forward in an attempt to be more imposing, which failed miserably. “Your so-called hospitality is complete lunacy. How can you burn down your own capital?“

To that he smiled wickedly: “Do you really think that I would allow you to win.

How can you expect that your invasion would have no repercussions? Just because you’ve tasted true defeat doesn’t mean you have to throw a tantrum. This is the price for your arrogance.

I wonder if your emperor will still be biting off more than he can chew when he gets back to Paris, if he even manages to.“

Sky blue eyes narrowed at him.

“Through him a new age has dawned where I will bring enlightment to the rest of the world. One of these days I’ll have you on your knees before me and I’ll reign supreme“, he defended himself, even though he himself had begun to doubt how valid his statements were.

Ivan stuck a gloved hand in his coat pocket and began rummaging for his pistole and evenly countered: “That day isn’t today and probably will never come. As of now you are in retreat. This is the beginning of the end of the era Napoleon Francis. It didn’t even last long.

Don’t worry however, I’ll show you your place once I’ve crushed you.“

The younger man turned his head and spat at the forest floor before hissing: “You should be grateful, for how much I contributed to your culture. Do I have to remind you that French is the language of your court?“

Russia bristled slightly but nonetheless continued plowing on: “Therefore the tsar, in all his justness, as decided to return to some of the old values.“

“You speak of the fairness of your ruler while your peasant stock doesn’t even own themselves.“

That stung. It was true that the Russian way of life was harsher on the most and he could feel the discontent of his people deep in his bones. But bad times brought people together, the common goal to chase away the enemy - like at present when he was hunting down Frenchmen.

“Says the man that had his consul crown himself emperor in front of his religious leader. You are one to talk, especially since the ideals of the Revolution aren’t so prevalent any more“, Ivan argued.

When the countered died upon quivering lips and a mind dulled by the circumstances couldn’t formulate a response, Ivan stalked forward.

“I’ll contend with you later. As of now, good night“

With those words he drew his pistole and cocked the hammer. The shot echoed between the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it is more than clear that the Russians didn't take the French Invasion of 1812 lightly. When the Grand Armee was retreating, the Russian population as well of the cosacks killed any Frenchman that they crossed paths with.


	3. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1945 - Belgium finds America's eating habits … interesting.

It was sickening to watch. Maybe it was just because she was thin to the point that her ribs were showing, maybe it was genuine disgust to the way Alfred was stuffing with one serving of chips after the other. Belgium suspected it was a combination of both. At first, she had thought that the change he had displayed once reuniting after not seeing each other since the 20s was restricted to his personality, but this new development was disturbing.

Beatrix had already eaten as much as she could stomach, which was only a handful of her own helping. After a long and oppressive occupation that included strict rations, she found that she couldn’t bring much down her throat without becoming nauseous. It was already a mistake to have prepared something so fatty, but she had wanted to be polite and serve her guest something other than dry bread and watery soup. For herself it was something akin to a minor celebration to take out the treasure potatoes and oil without having to worry about how she’d get by without the risk of going hungry.

“This is fantastic! You just have to give me the recipe to this”, America praised between mouthfuls of food.

“Sure. Thank you…. I’m glad you enjoy it”, she responded somewhat wooded, leaving unsaid that maybe he enjoyed the chips a bit too much.

Sure he was a man, one with an evident appetite as well, but this was going a bit to far. Such behaviour was more expected from a growing boy than a responsible adult. She rasped her throat to gain his attention and tried carefully: “Shouldn’t you slow down just a little bit?”

“Nah, I’m good”, he waved off, scrapping that last bits of brown fried crumbs out of the napkin they had been served on. He wasn’t even finished chewing when he began eyeing her unfinished meal gluttonously.

Swallowing, he then pointed a finger at the object of his desire, his tanned skin glistening with grease. Before he could utter his request, she wordlessly relinquished her portion to him and watched him wolf it down with gusto.

“If you keep up at that pace you might suffocate on your food”, she warned him which he just shrugged off. At this point she was putting a lot of effort to prevent he eyebrows from disappearing beyond her hairline.

“It’s not like they have been starving you”, she pointed out, trying to stay polite while simultaneously indicating that his behaviour was inappropriate.

“Not really, it’s the constant conferences and negotiations that make me hungry now that the fighting is over.”

He was already finished with what he had gotten from her and was licking his finger. In between he asked: “Can I have some more?”

“I’m terribly sorry but you’ve finished my stock and potatoes are being rationed.”

To that Alfred pouted and Beatrix made a mental note not to invite him over to any kind of meal in the foreseeable future. Arthur had had the courtesy to warn her over the telephone and she had believed he had been overexaggerating. Now she had payed dearly.


	4. Tyrany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1940 - His leader will have to except that Russia has his own opinions.

It was astounding how much the general secretary effected his mood. How dare the man drown so far in his arrogance to the point he thought himself a god. Ivan’s hands were clenched to fists, the knuckles white and muscles trembling. It upsetted the wounds littering his back and chest - he could feel them weeping blood again. At this point, however, the pain was irrelevant; he would be forced into his knees just because Ludwig was attempting an endeavour that Francis had failed at rather spectacularly more than a century ago.

He could literally feel the Wehrmacht rolling over cites and villages in the west, plundering and burning their way towards Moscow. It was a catastrophe, and this man he had trusted was also to blame.

“You were wrong Joseph. I’m very disappointed in you”, Russia growled. The person addressed stopped pacing to glare at him. Panic, fear, fury, it was all concocting in the short, pock-marked man - the question was when it would erupt. Probably sooner than later.

“Don’t vent out your anger on me. I’m not to blame for the defeats.”

“Oh yes. Then who executed several competent generals as scapegoats? Who threw tantrum after tantrum in the war room? Who made that stupid pact in the first place?”, Ivan thunder and stepped closer in order to tower over his leader. If it weren’t for him, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

The handle bar moustache quivered as Stalin yelled: “Says the one that proposed me ally with those German swines in the first place! Don’t deny it, you wanted that kraut to help us with Poland even before the Olympics so don’t frame me!”

The slash across his cheek ached from having to frown so much. Ivan pointed an accusing finger at the mortal and growled: “You, Dschughaschwili, are the person behind the severe mismanagement of my army. I have men and woman using rusty and outdated equipment from the previous great war. I have whole divisions marching without weapons. Is that what you call well-thought warfare?”

At this point Stalin’s face was beet-red and his eyes were beginning to bulge.

“Shut up! You have no right to say such things to me, when I have lead you to prosperity. Before me you were on the verge of ruin, and this is how you thank me. I’ve done so much for you, I picked you up by your bootstraps and now I will lead you to victory. Or would you rather still be under the rule of the Tsar? Would you rather be bled dry so that a few pigs can stuff themselves full at the expense of the people?”, Stalin roared, gesturing wildly.

Ivan had struck a nerve when he had mentions his real surname so of course he would retaliate. Such things had to be repaid after all. Sometimes the mortal thought it was a pity that he needed the personification, otherwise he would have already sent Russia to a Gulag. It didn’t matter, the immortal would even be of splendid use on the front lines.

At the reminder of the late monarch bile rose in Russia’s throat along with a set of memories that he was desperately trying to forget.

Hatred along with regret co-existed in regard to that time. He had suffered, but that didn’t mean that Stalin was a saint for not being like them, he was rather a demon of another calibre.

“We are not finished Joseph”, he called over his shoulder as he stormed out of the room. It was little use arguing with such a self-righteous person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact remains, the Red Army was very ill-equipt for the Germans. As mentioned, many men marched without any weapons. Many also used out-dated weaponary.


	5. Boastful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1800s - England isn't amused.

The meeting was mandatory but that didn’t mean Arthur had to enjoy it. On the contrary, he was exercising self-restraint, but it was slowing wearing thin. It was all thanks to his beloved son, that couldn’t stop revelling in a victory that had been achieved just about two decades ago.

“You should have seen his face when I pointed my rifle at him. It was amazing! …”, Alfred told Mexico, the Spanish colony listening intently and letting the false tales of rebellion fuel her desire for freedom. False, because the boy was painting his revolution as a standoff between him and the British Empire.

“If you have babble about your achievements then at least you can be honest, boy”, Arthur remarked, effectively cutting in the conversation and making both of the youngsters turn to him.

In response Alfred sneered, snapping at his former guardian: “I am, so piss off. You’re just all bitter because I haven’t come crawling back to you as you said I would.”

He crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side, drawling in a bad Imitation of the posh British accent favoured by Kirkland: “How dare you rebel against me, boy. All these years I’ve protected and spoiled you and this is how you return my generosity? By throwing it all away? You need me, you can’t survive without me!”

The elder rolled his eyes at the immature behaviour of his misguided charge and recalled: “You only won due to France and Spain funding you to blast me with a cannon. You wouldn’t even have been able to hold your musket still if Prussia hadn’t meddled. Care to mention that? I bet you’ll have all those important facts ommited from the regular history books.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that the Americans had active support from Spain, France, Prussia, Poland and the Netherlands and passive support by Russia, Norway, Denmark, and Portugal and Monacco


	6. Repetion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1950s - History tends to repeat itself, even in the New World

“Are you sure you aren’t overexaggerating with chasing down the Reds? You’re worse than back then in Salem. My boy, I would be far more conducted and tactful in your place.“

Giving him a look, his son is grinning from ear to ear as he says: “Really, old man I’m handling the situation just fine. You’re just jealous. Nostalgic of the time you squabbled with the Commie over the Asian Mirror? Suck it up, ‘cause you’re no longer high and mighty.“

Features contorting to a deep frown he snarls: “Don’t you dare rub that in my face. You should learn to respect your elders.“

Completely unimpressed by the sharp tone, Alfred shrugs his shoulders and replies: “Jeez, don’t get your briefs in a bunch. I’m the hero and I get to call all the shots!“


	7. Mythology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2000s - Russia usually is sent to track down America

After what felt like an hour Ivan finally found his ex-ally, still-in-a-way-enemy in the lobby of the hotel. He might even went past him if he hadn’t heard Alfred whistling the Avengers theme song and tapping foot intact to the rhythm.

  
The younger nation had made himself cosy in one of the arm chairs and had hidden his face behind a worn copy of one of the earlier editions of Captain America.

  
“Aren’t you a bit too old to be reading super hero comics, Fredka?“, Russia asked, and the occupant of the chair went completely still for a moment before gazing over the top of the pages. Blue eyes stared at him accusingly and then Alfred turned the magazine around so that the panels were facing Ivan.  
“Here you see the Cap’ breaking into Hydra’s hideout. Lot of guns, lot of explosions, not something for a 7-year olds, don’t ya think“, America countered.

Ivan sighed; he was getting experated due to Alfred’s think-headedness. “The point is that such stories are for the young. You want us to treat you seriously so you’ve got to give us more than whining and lip-service.“  
  
“Says the one that reads fairy tales in his free time.“  
  
Purple eyes narrowed at the jab and before the brat could continue he corrected: “Fairy tales were originally meant for the entertainment of grown-ups. You and your father as well as Ludwig just censored so much that a lot are now child-friendly.“  
  
Alfred jutted his chin out and replied: “This, my dear friend, is American folklore, my mythology of sorts and as long as you leave mine alone, I’ll leave yours alone.“


	8. Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2010s, Peking - Government officials tend to have a hard time with China.

“Wang! How many times do I have to tell you, you’re not allowed to adopt a child?“, he yelled, to which the person in question just raised a thin brow.  
  
When he had heard two years ago that he would be working together with the prestigious personification, China in the flesh, he had been delighted. His daydreams had been filled with long conversations over tee, his charge being a grandfather figure that was as wise as could be.  
  
He hadn’t been disappointed.  
  
But it wasn’t the whole picture. Another part of the masterpiece that was his country seemed to be a perpetulant teenager. Both of them combined meant nothing good.  
  
“And what, may I ask, doesn’t give me the right to do so?“, the nation questioned, each word spoken with utter clarity.  
  
“Do I seriously…“  
  
“Manners, young one. Respect those older and more experienced than you!“

Taking deep breaths he clenched and unclenched his fists in order to regain his composure. It was unbelievable how much Yao Wang drove him up the wall at times. No wonder he was regarded with pity every time his peers heard of his job.  
  
He stared at the offender, who this time even brought up the respect to hear him out and not ignore him in favour of the adoption papers.  
  
“Honourable sir, may I remind you of the last time you took a orphan under your wing“, he said, anger lacing his words.  
  
It had been a nightmare. The poor little girl had to go to a therapist because of China’s bad parenting and having had an unfortunate glimpse of the more serious side of her adoptive father’s nationhood. In the beginning it had even been very promising, so they had been lenient on Wang and even supported him. Yet they had forgotten that while Yao Wang looked like a human, he didn’t always act like one.

“Child, don’t talked to me as if you know better. Your parents didn’t do a good job raising you, judging from your lack of manners“, Yao chided.  
  
It was so weird to hear such a thing from a person that had the physical appearance of a 29-year-old. Especially when said person was wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt with matching slippers visible underneath the table. However this was also the man that would dish out scathing critiques and point loaded guns at people so he had learned long ago not to laugh.  
  
All of it didn’t make the insult sting any less.  
  
“My mother is a fine woman and my father couldn’t be a better head of the family. That was a low blow from you… sir“, he quickly added at the end to round of his defence. Nobody got away lightly with insulting his family.  
  
To that the nation just snorted and turned his attention back to the documents, sarcastically saying: “I can clearly see that!“


	9. Pot-shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1941, Finland - Russia would do well not to underestimate Finland.

The snarling only made his throat even worse. The metallic taste of blood lay and his coated his lips in a frozen film – iron and copper and an icy layer that burned. 

Through that pain couldn’t compare to the hole in his chest, that was slowly going numb from the cold and from a body that was dying. Finland could really be sadistic, something many of the others wouldn’t even comprehend if he ever told them.

In his mind, Ivan cursed Tino with every insult in the book. Although the latter deserved far worse than any vile and vulgar words could inflict. The grievances past and the present were accumulating to a severe grudge. In time, Russia would crush his enemy under a steel-toed boot and teach him what it meant to defy his might.

But such fantasies of revenge would have to wait until later. With a pulverized rib and a pierced lung, he didn’t have much business being alive. So, with the patience that came from having undergone the process counts times over the course of millennia, Ivan let the veil of the afterlife steadily descend down on him.

Then, because the world is never kind to him in any way, somebody approached. The soft steps of winter boots on powered snow that only emitted a faint rustle. In a cruel fashion, his heart rate spiked in surprise and in rebellious death throws – it caused the throbbing ache to spike.

Tino was clothed completely in white, blue eyes and the patches of a black rifle that contrasts with its camouflage. The other nation looked beautiful, soft features that hard centuries couldn’t ruin. Even the malice gleaming from eyes that were for to energetic for Ivan’s liking made him look handsome.

Finland was like the Snow Queen, all ethereal grace that came cloaked in innocent white that robbed the souls of children – Ivan’s soldiers. A strange allegory, but nonetheless a fitting one.

He stalked closers, barely leaving imprints on the snow, with vindictive satisfaction written in his body language and the quirk of his lips. Futilely, Russia tried to get up – if he were to die, then he would do so standing and with dignity.

Alas! the bullet had punctured his left lung so that it continuously filled with blood – he was suffocating on his own body fluids. The only thing left to do was to glare and bare crimson-stained teeth as his vision slowly turned back.

“You’ve really bitten off more than you could chew, retard”, the sniper said coldly, and then in a propitious display of power placed a booted foot on Ivan’s chest. The pressure that followed was excruciating.

“Go crawling back to the shithole you came from and don’t dare invade me again. If you do, then you’ll wish you could die”, he threatened, the last words a soft whisper. The last sight on that day was staring up the barrel of a pistole as Tino pulled the trigger.

This time, the shot hit bullseye


	10. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1810, Vienna - Austria talks to a princess about her impending marriage to the enemy

_Bélla geránt aliī, tu félix Áustria nūbe. Nám quae Márs aliīs, dát tibi díva Venús._

_(Others may lead war, you, happy Austria, marry)_

Why war when there could be diplomacy and union? Rodrich had always been a much better diplomate than a soldier, a better politician than a war-time strategist.

That didn’t no anything to lighten the situation. The princess was seated opposite of him, lips pursed and muscles tense with rage.

“I know this most be difficult for you, Maria Ludovica. But I assure you, this is for the best”, he morosely soothed her. It wasn’t an easy feat since his own nerves were fried. In his mind’s eye, he could already see Francis’ smug smile as he demanded in a lewd tone that his fellow nation bend over so that they could consummate their union.

High society schooling and centuries of experience prevented a visible shiver from running down his spine at the thought.

Porcelain clinked as she set her coffee with a tad bit more than necessary.

“I know. As a member of the royal family, I know I have to put my country before myself”, she said waspishly. Agitation was apparent on her pockmarked face, the feeling seated in underlying hatred. Austria’s thoughts wandered to the doll his princess had of Napoleon, the one she vented her anger out on. The Antichrist would sure be threadbare and missing a few limbs the next morning.

“Yes, I see I’ve taught you well. Nonetheless, despite it being an arranged marriage your consent is still needed”, he pushed onward, splitting the slice of cake in front of him down the middle while doing so. Sliver scratched over fine patterns, painted with consideration – the delicacy of a sweet presented in a silk wrapping.

“Chancellor Metternich is already informed of my choice. My wish is as my duty commands. And if that means that I shall wed the man that humiliated my father on multiple occasions, then so be it”, she bravely answered.

He regarded her sharply over the rim of his glasses.

While he did pity her, he knew that the misery of one little girl was nothing in comparison to the welfare of a whole nation. Napoleon had been eyeing the Russian princess since his divorce, something Rodrich wouldn’t stand for. Francis and Ivan were too cosy as it was; high time to drive a wedge into that alliance. Good for him that Metternich was just the man willing to slip oily words in the ears of those that would listen.

With was a small price to pay for all that could be gained.

“Still Herr Österreich. I am … at a loss. I don’t know how I’m supposed to handle the matter”, she whispered forlornly. Maria fancied herself a martyr; that didn’t mean she knew how to be one.

He set down his fork and swallowed the cake in his mouth.

“As a woman, such things will come naturally to you. However, since I know that you hate your future husband, let me ease your mind. The French emperor is a busy man – he constantly has to deal with affairs of state and military. Aside from traveling a lot, Napoleon is also rumoured already have had many extra-marital liaisons.

“Personally, I don’t think you’ll be spending much time with him. He wants an heir from you, not affection and support.

“Just remember to be careful. Integrate yourself with the French court and don’t neglect your appearance”, he advised, measuring his words.

She was still frightened. “Why do I have to leave you behind and become wholly French? I don’t want to be another Marie Antoinette.”

He calmly shook his head. Even he would the request of Bonaparte to re-enact the same ceremony a past princess underwent when he had given her over to Francis.

Austrian to French. Princess to Empress. Maria Ludovica to Marie Louise. Was France trying to rub the past in his face?

“You aren’t like her. I remember her as a child. She was unruly and dreamy and interested in anything else but her lessons. She’d often even skipped them. God, it was a nightmare to teach her the harp”, he mused as he sunk into recent memories.

His companion chuckled at that.

Once more he studied her. Austria would have to make sure to keep in touch with her. After all, why let somebody that could inform his of France’ and his sovereign’s activities better than her? 


	11. 1943 – Calcutta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is 1943 and India has a national hero along with all the implications.

The sun was rising over the docks of Calcutta, colouring the else muddy waters of the Hugli in a dozen shades of reds and oranges as it flowed into the Ganges delta. Despite the early hour, or exactly because of it, the place was already filled with a melange of different people, shout orders and receiving them, trading cargo, and making deals.

Nobody really noticed a sole figure standing at one of the empty piers and gazing out in the distance, a cigarette at hand.

It was a bad cigarette, India decided, as he rifted it to his lips for an idle draw for the umpteenth time. Still it was better than none – it was something to keep him busy, to still his nerves and offer a slight distraction from the pangs of hunger that contradicted the large breakfast he had managed to assemble today.

While it wasn’t the first time, he had to suffer such a paradox, he hoped it would be the last.

Polished shoes clicked against the dirty cobblestone in a sophisticated rhyme and in his peripherals, Neeraja saw a familiar bespectacled figure. Silently, Subhas Bose came to stand next to him, gazing out over the river and the cityscape and the green hills and plains beyond that. The human was respectful, dignified in his anger. The restraint and discipline Subhas held over his emotions was something the nation venerated, something he regarded as a mark of greatness.

“And?”, India ask curtly, despite that he already knew the answer – the body language of his companion had already heralded the storm clouds. It was just to assess how bad the downpour and the gales would be.

“They’ve denied any relief. Churchill peevishly asked why Gandhi hasn’t starved yet”, the former politician said bitterly, the stiff cadence one of the few indicators that he was irate. India himself muttered a few choice curse words and furled both hands into fists, making the cig in his one hand crumble, the paper splitting open and spending the grainy tobacco raining down to the ground.“I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything less of that Gora”, he remarked as he then proceeded to fumble for a new one. With a few wooden movements and lit it and raised it to his mouth. Neeraja accepted that he would have to use more in the coming months to distract from the phantom pains of full stomach that echoed the empty ones of the people of Bengal. For a moment he entertained the thought of stretching the tobacco with opium as he had done before in the past, to make the agonizing dreams of famine and epidemic milder.

Yet he decided against it in the very same breath. If anything, he needed his mind to be sharp and clear – the right choices were vital.

“What has the Viceroy done?”, he inquired.

“He told me that his hands are tied”, Netaji said and then went on with his report. “Churchill has the last word, as head of the War Cabinet. Furthermore, trade between the provinces is still restricted. Transports from Australia wouldn’t stop here since they are needed for reserve stockpiles be the British.

“They are tyrants to the very end, with all their words being spoken with split tongues and their promises being empty”, the statement was finished with vitriol. A deserved vitriol because England deserved nothing less after over two centuries of looting.

“As if I didn’t know. The current Viceroy is better than his predecessor, I’ll give him that.”

Neeraja would never forget how the Lord that had once resided in the highest office of governance here in Calcutta had done the same to the Congress as what Kirkland had done to him. The snake-like smile that England had worn that day still made his skin crawl and the conversation never failed to make simmering coals of anger raw back into flame.

“I’m at war with Germany”, the Westerner had said. “And as my colony and jewel in my crown so are you”, he had said. India had pressed his lips to a tight line and reminded the younger country: “You are rather quick to determine such a thing, Arthur.”

The words had been careful, selected, because England had a vile temper that was most easily evoked when he perceived a threat to his power manifesting.

“Yes, we’re facing a very dangerous and amoral enemy. Germany has all the more the demeanour of a rabid dog and we must band together in face of such a force of evil. Action must proceed fast and without hesitation.”

For all his moral posturing, he himself tended to be rather rapacious and manipulative. Not that India had gone so far to outright state it, because such people didn’t take being reminded of their own hypocrisy very well.

England was a special brand of that. The colony knew that the empire wrote of all his misdeeds as necessary and was convinced his enterprise to expand his power across the globe was a just one. He had taken India and cleaved and exorcised parts out of him that he had convinced the world that they were malignant tumours instead of healthy tissue. Then, he had leaved those wounds to fester and become enflamed before attaching parts that didn’t fit to the former empire but were of his liking. Gangrene and other poisons of infect were what resulted from those misdeeds – a Frankenstein of his own creation.

It didn’t stop India from not supporting the war, much to his master’s chagrin, even as he sent men and equipment and food for the war effort.

“What will you other me in return this time”, Neeraja had questioned. At that, Kirkland had frown and cryptically murmured: “We’ll see what you’ll earn.”

This time, he hadn’t instilled his servant with any hopes of gaining freedom that would never be granted. Said servant had now fully come to accept that freedom wasn’t given, it was taken.

“Therefore, affirmative action must be taken now”, Bose said in the present, here and now. The passion the nation had come to associate with the man was now fully rearing its head. “The weakness of the Empire must be exploited while there is still the chance.”

“And you must be careful in an uncertain time like this. You’ve been lucky to solely suffer from prison sentences and house arrests up until now. The time will come when they’ll call for your blood and set you in front of the firing squad”, India reminded the man.

“They are already are”, was the solemn reply that referred to the attempts to liquidate him.

“Then I hope for you and all of us that your dealings with the Japanese Imperial Army pay off.”

The question of how Kirkland would deal with the fallout and what consequences he would enforce was something that kept India awake some nights. No doubt that should he win, he wouldn’t take the treasonous acts of his colony well, especially since the latter was taking steps to knock him off his throne while the whole world was steeped in conflict. No doubt he would twist events and deny them, so that the historians would have a clean version of events to write down. Clear cut distinctions and boundaries were a fiction happily written down in books while reality remained murky with all borders blurred.

“It will”, Subhas assured him, “they are not so steeped in fables of racial superiority as the Germans. Not so overly arrogant as to deny help to potential allies.”

Subhas Bose shook hands with fascists and communists alike, and for that many condemned him. It was just a pity that realpolitik paid little heed to the whimsy ideologies of men. Russia and Germany hadn’t been inclined to help him shake of the fetters of colonialism, so when Japan had extended his hand in order to fulfil that offer, many had been glad to grab it.

“That doesn’t prevent me from being concerned. Empires tend to operate on similar lines. Kiku could just be using me as a steppingstone to ultimate supremacy. I’d rather not exchange one demon for another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The famine that the two talk about in the story was the 1943 Bengal famine that cost over 2 million lives. While local politicians, English as well as Indian, advocated that Bengal get aid, those requests were denied by London. Churchill was particularly racist towards Indians, stating once that they were “beastly people with a beastly religion”. Food stuff was further directed towards the troops and Europe, with Australian ships full of food passing by the coast of India as they head towards to Europe.
> 
> The Viceroy in charge of India when the war broke out in no way consulted the Congress about the situation and promptly declared that India was at war with the Axis as well. This didn’t sit well with the Congress, who launched the Quit India Movement. This led to thousands of national and local Congress members being arrested. India further continued to not endorse the war.
> 
> While it is undeniable that there were Britons that didn’t let racism cloud their view and genuinely advocated for the welfare of the Indian people, it is equally undeniable that the Empire inflicted a lot of damage on the subcontinent. 
> 
> Subhas Bose was a politician that campaigned heavily for India’s independence and for that, he is a national hero. Yes, he made dealings with the Nazis and the Soviets and the Japanese. Yes, he held the view that the following government in India should be authoritarian. And yes, he advocated for women’s rights, supported liberal and secular ideas. The international airport of Kolkata is named after Bose. Point to case, alliances and the such are not clear cut in real life. Aung San and Ba Maw in Burma/Myanmar, Sukarno in Indonesia had similar stances as Bose and collaborated with the Japanese in hopes of gaining independence for their countries.
> 
> The Indian National Army fought on the side of the Japanese in WWII. British attempt to put on a show trial to condemn the officers of INA backfired spectacularly as it prompted mass protests throughout India that made the country ungovernable and was a key contributing factor to the precipitous collapse of the British rule in India.


	12. 1977 – Santiago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is 1974, and Chile feels nausea welling up in his gut at the thought what is going on down on the tarmac.

It was another one of those days where Chile had awoken with a foul taste in his mouth. The sort of disgusting sensation that alerted him that the coming day would be anything but pleasant.

Or it had been because of the dreams that he had had that night, the same torturous ones that caused him to wake up shaking. Those that had haunted him for years, rising and ebbing as events passed. Blood and pain and minds slowly going wrong; those were what polluted his mind at night and troubled him during the day.

Today it was worse than usual, with Renato being jittery the whole day, unable to sit still because of the anger that had become embroided in his soul and the fear that accompanied it as a rancid aftertaste.

Somehow, he had found himself in the German embassy on a whim, his intuition having guided him here. While superficially, he hadn’t been completely cognisant as to why, he had a gut feeling. A premonition that history would likely repeat itself – the very notion made his intestines curl and knot in horror.

Renato was just pacing by the large window overlooking the parking space, fingers interlocked behind his back, when he saw them.

It was a pair this time, harried expressions on weather worn features that no amount of composure could disguise. Like the others that had come before them, they were unbelievably tense, hackles raised high in defence to new and strange world. Chile had seen that glint in those very eyes before, staring at him with indoctrinated happiness, staring at him from German clothing and hairstyles…

And now there was so much hope in all those jaded eyes, something he could even pinpoint from his space at the window while they hurried across the tarmac. A diplomate went out to greet them, to welcome them with warm smiles and sympathetic words which soothed their fears so that they were replaced by relief.

He had long stopped pacing to stare and the sight he saw made him sick. Desperation coiled alongside the fear now, and he started to whisper prayers to the Virgin Mary under his breath. Such trust only to be shamelessly betrayed, a knife not only plunged in an exposed back, but coated in poison too.

As he watched the group walk in and therefore disappear from his sight, he felt the disconnected memories rush to the forefront of his consciousness. That was the price of being a personification, to suffer from the continuous dissonance of being an individual and a collective simultaneously, to know of atrocities as a person and yet to be completely unaware of them as a country.

As a person, he knew the place they had fled was a complete horror show on the most excruciating level – slavery, abuse, torture, brainwashing. Yet as a nation, he only know of that place as an example of orderliness, of a well-run hospital and a school and a community of friendly people – a piece of Germany placed on the foothills of the Andes. 

Unlike others, he explicitly knew of the horrors that occurred there. Pinochet had brought him there to marvel at the cult, had threatened to send him there to be driven into insanity if he rebelled. Renato had read the reports, both of his government and of Amnesty International, detailing the inhumanity that was home there.

He had looked in Paul Schäfer’s eyes and had seen nothing but fanatic egoism and power hunger. While the name Germany left a bitter taste in other nation’s mouths because of the recent war, it was poison in his mouth because of that devil that painted himself as a saint.

Colonia Dignidad was a place of suffering and would only bring him shame. Shame that he wasn’t absolutely ready to confront. Because there was another hazard in being a nation – to having conflicting ideals and political stances. One day he fully supported the military dictatorship, on others he opposed it and yearned for democracy. More often than not it was both, to opposites juxtaposed against each other.

Before his mind could fully register what his body was doing, he was already walking to the door. The duo was locked in a room across the hall way, the key in the lock. Today his humanitarian side had kicked in. It would be much to the chagrin of many, he knew.

The two prisoners were unaware of what fate would have had instore for them, if he had decided to go somewhere else today.

„ _This is treason, you know“,_ whispered an ancient voice in his head. It sniggered and cooed at his discomfort. _“My little Renato. For all that you trick yourself into being calm and composed, in truth you’re an impulsive little brat. How can the Lord ever receive you with such a sinful demeanour?”,_ purred a voice that sounded awfully like Spain.

Yes, Chile was well aware that this was treason, that if he had any self-preservation that he would allow the German embassy to deliver the escapees back. The cult leaders connections were strong and reached to the upper echelons of power. A few bribes was all it had cost him to get be in the favour of allegedly innocent diplomates.

It didn’t prevent him from telling the two: “Good day to you two. I am Renato Fernández and I’ll be helping you from here on. Because of your special circumstance I must take you elsewhere.”

Confusion was displayed and those worried face, but Chile felt determination rise up in him. This time, he wouldn’t idly stand by. This time, the German embassy wouldn’t return two people to Colonia Dignidad. This time, he would see to it himself that two people successfully got their freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colonia Dignidad was a Christian cult in central Chile that was founded by Paul Schäfer in the 50s. Life in the cult was exceptionally brutal – strict segregation by sex, separating parents from their children, forced labour for 12-14 hours per day (for children as well), little sleep, public humiliation for the slightest transgression, torture via electroshocks, inducing amnesia and false memories with psycho pharma.
> 
> On top of that, Schäfer was a notorious pedophile. Enough said.
> 
> Pinochet had strong connections to the cult and sent a lot of journalists and political opponents there to be interrogated and tortured. Only a few live to tell the tale. The cult only developed firearms for Pinochet, as well as chemical and biological weapons, the later being the result of human experimentation.
> 
> The German Embassy in Chile also had a hand in this – they were bribed into sending escapees back to the cult. That is very sick on itself.  
> While the most inhumane conditions existed in the cult, it portrayed a very idyllic picture to the outside world – the top-notch hospital and school was open to people in the region, and there is a lot of film material of cult members smiling as they worked and singing and dancing in traditional German clothing.


	13. 1945, Potsdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is 1945, and the power dynamics of the world are shifting. The bear is reminiscing about the eagle’s evolution.

In nature, it is taken as a given that the large carnivores are territorial in their ways. Strength paired with a healthy amount of cunning equals power, and the position at the top of the pecking order has to be fought for and then defended from contestants. It was also innate that these great beasts don’t like to share the kill.

So why were a lion, a bear and a bald eagle laying the corner stones for the new world order? Granted, all three had learned not to be too hasty, that actually superiority is something that has to be achieved and painstakingly built. However, despite their vying for hegemony, they were being surprising … cordial about the affair.

Schloss Cecilienhof was nevertheless home to one of the most intricate power struggles of the modern world.

This evening, the lion had temporarily retired to tend to his wounds and sooth his bruised pride, so it was only bear and the eagle that were idly chatting at the hearth. They each liquor – finely fermented whisky with crushed ice – in sizable glasses on the table between they; a healthy dose each. As was appropriate when one wadded through politics and all its intricacies. It painted a very homely picture to the onlooker.

Yet, as usual, there was far more to this picture than sight betray. So many nuances and budding possibilities and wilting future lay beneath the surface. It was nearly poetic. Although America was being in a rather poetic mood at the moment.

“It was majestic. The night became day that moment, kinda like how you’d imagine a star going nova. The sand on the desert floor turned into green glass. Radioactive of course, as a few tiny tests concluded”, Alfred waxed.

He had that dream-like quality in his sky-blue eyes, one that Ivan hadn’t seen since the then boy had declared independence against a larger than life empire. One that always had sparked and fizzled with potential when the then colony had spoken of his utopian dreams.

Now reality had been turned upside-down – the splitting of the undividable tasted more of dystopia than it did of paradise. And Alfred was now the budding superpower. Arthur was the crumbling empire, desperately snatching at the smoke.

“Oppenheimer couldn’t have been righter when quoting that Hindu scripture”, Alfred commented with the lax smile of a youth while he lounged in the armchair with the air of a seasoned politician.

“Oh yes, he was. Thousands upon thousands of tons of dynamite, compressed into a single war head. That is some astounding power you have there, Fredka. You should just be sure not to fly so close to the sun”, Russia drolly snipped.

Sculpted muscles twitched underneath a well pressed suit as the undertones poked at still existent insecurities. Yet he didn’t rise to take the bait at the implications of childishness, thus proving his maturity in a small way.

“And you shouldn’t bite of more than you can chew when trying to ascend to the heavens, Ruskie”, America drawled lightly, then taking a sip from his glass and putting it back between them.

The addressed smiled tightly. They had set aside their differences in order to pull the wolves teeth. With that task accomplished and the animal just needing an appropriate leash, the war-time alliances were gradually unravelling.

Ivan remembered a passionate kiss on the banks of the Elbe, when two armies had greeted each other with open arms and affections. The memory of that now was sweet poison on his tongue.

Bitterly, Russia stated: “The gods have long since come down from the stars, and they are no longer kind.”

Alfred exempted from his Simpleton tactics now, clearing understanding what the other nation meant. Indeed, sapience was a gift of the divine, allowing them to transcend while remaining on earth.

Gracefully, America unfurled, looking suddenly out of place as he shifted through the facets of his personality. No longer the sly diplomate, the ruthless general, or the experienced explorer as he lazily slouched in the chair. Rather the renegade youth that chooses to shake at the pillars of the world in all his idealism and nativity.

“Or maybe the pits of hell are empty, and all the demons are here. You’re the one that has such a cynical approach to the world.”

Taking a sizable gulp of his own alcohol, Ivan said: “No, I’ve just learned that it is better to expect the worst and be positively surprised than to expect the best on be depressingly disappointed. Besides, if the demons are here, why should they be allowed to possess the weapons that can take down the gods? They might do that, one day, after this war is over.”

As the rare occurrence of the day, Alfred genuinely frowned. Of course, he didn’t like the implications, but then again, that was the point of passive aggressive spats. It made him smile slightly, the movement made pain in his cheek flair up where a bullet had gazed it a mere week before. There were other wounds hidden under formal clothing. But the bear had always been hardy, with every sustained injury making him more volatile and lethal.

“Then it just has to be ensured that the demons don’t get their hands on it. If I must play the modern-day Prometheus that brings humanity the fire only to be punished for it, then I’ll do it with grace”, came the level answer.

“Don’t act so noble”, Ivan chided, cutting the chase, ”we both know that isn’t the case.” 

“Then tell me what better option there is? You? Not likely. The whole world now looks to America to lead it into a new era of peace and prosperity. Pax Americana.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might one day add a second part to this, maybe not. We’ll see what the future holds.

**Author's Note:**

> What is your opinion on this story? Leave a comment!


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